


Committed to Memory

by fushiginokunino



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (because tim), Angst, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Podfic Available, Rusty Quill Big Bang, also diverges from canon roughly around 154, also whatever the tag is for "stupid" as a genre...some of that, basically one-shots with a tenuous thread of plot, feel free to treat the whole thing as an AU if you like!, i tried not to directly contradict canon but i know some of my HCs are not the typical fanon so, i'll warn at the beginning of that chapter in case you don't wanna be big sad, only tagging people with speaking roles but everyone else is there yk, rated for language, vague spoilers thru 154
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-08-19 02:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 16,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20201908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fushiginokunino/pseuds/fushiginokunino
Summary: It wasn’t that he had fallen in love. Not then. Not yet. But, in time, he would come to recognize the moment that he had first made his choice. The one that he would later make again and again, in defiance of fear, and distance, and all other things greater than himself.A series of vignettes concerning certain memories that were deemed too insignificant for tape—something of an oversight, in retrospect.





	1. 11 October 2012

**Author's Note:**

> There is a podfic version of this available at the link, so if you want to optimize your RQBB fic consumption, give it a listen! A million, billion thanks to Alex for doing a such a wonderful recording and being lovely to work with for this event!

It wasn’t that he had fallen in love. Not then. Not yet. But, in time, he would come to recognize the moment that he had first made his choice. The one that he would later make again and again, in defiance of fear, and distance, and all other things greater than himself.

Martin Blackwood had entered the canteen with his mind on the case he had been assigned that morning. Another spider one. Those came to him so often that he had to wonder whether the other researchers were refusing them on principle, which—well, maybe he could understand, because they rarely had anything _ really _ paranormal to them. People were just...perpetually freaked out by spiders, for some reason.

Still, he thought, wending his way around tables and tray-laden employees, there was value in reassuring statement givers that they weren’t actually in any danger. _ Yes, _ he would say, _ that is quite a lot of spiders to find living above the door to your flat, but some species are just social like that, and— _And, arriving at the counter, he lost his train of thought entirely.

For stood there, stock still and staring at the menu as if it held all the secrets of the universe, was Jonathan Sims.

Which wouldn’t have been nearly so odd if, well...Jon had been hired almost a year ago, now, and in all of that time, Martin had never seen him in the canteen. Nor, to his knowledge, had anyone else—Tim Stoker had joked about it not two weeks ago, in fact, stating with authority that it was because Jon didn’t eat_ , _ and instead metabolized the dust from old books like ‘some sort of horrifically nerdy plant.’

Of course, Martin knew that Jon _ did _ go out to eat with Tim, or with Sasha James on occasion. He seemed to avoid invitations to join any larger group, however—for lunch, or any other activity. He worked alone most of the time, often with books piled so high around him that he could hardly be seen, showed little interest in conversing about anything unrelated to the job, and would generally jump and give a tiny yelp when spoken to, as if surprised and somewhat alarmed to discover someone interacting with him.

Which, Martin reasoned, meant that Jon probably objected to the people crowding about the tables and the dull roar of their voices, rather than the act of eating itself. So it wasn’t _ too _ much of a stretch to imagine that even he would resign himself to a meal at the canteen in times of desperation.

Why he was currently attempting to burn a hole through the sandwich list with his eyes, however, Martin really had no earthly idea.

Martin considered his options. He had tried to help Jon when he was new to the Institute, explaining the layout of the library and where the stationery was kept and what things one absolutely should not touch (generally as Jon reached out to touch them). But Jon was diligent and sharp, and it had been a matter of weeks before there was nothing left to teach him. On top of that, they hadn’t yet been assigned to any of the same cases. All in all, Martin could probably count the number of full conversations they’d had on one hand—conversations which invariably ended with Jon, irritated, making some caustic remark, and Martin feeling rather stupider than usual.

Still...he couldn’t just leave him standing there. Not least because he was kind of in the way.

“Jon?” he said, as gently as he could.

True to form, Jon jumped in surprise.

“WAU— Oh.” His eyes widened as he searched for the source of the voice, but when they fell on Martin, his face relaxed in...was that _ relief _? “Martin.”

“Are you...alright?” Martin asked, somewhat taken aback himself.

“I…” Jon looked back at the menu, frowning. And then, sounding as lost as Martin had ever heard him, “What do I want to eat, Martin?”

Martin stared.

“...What?”

“It’s just…” Jon waved an arm helplessly at the menu, “...sandwiches.”

Martin briefly considered the possibility that Jon had gotten into the artefacts again. He _ had _ been asking questions about the Leitner collection the other day. Though...the situation he was confronted with didn’t _ seem _ sinister. Strange, yes. But it was less alarming than it was...

_ Endearing_.

And then he remembered exactly when he’d heard Jon use that tone of voice before. One that wasn’t authoritative, or tired, or irritable, but soft and earnest.

It was just after Jon had received his first statement to research. He’d gone off to have a look in the library, but disappeared for so long that Martin had started to wonder whether he’d perhaps gotten lost in the stacks. So he’d followed, and found Jon staring, wide-eyed, at the shelves containing the Institute’s massive collection of books, memoirs, and personal notes relating to 19th-century occultists.

Then, too, Martin had asked if he was alright, and then, too, Jon had looked at him as if he’d just pulled him from the sea and onto a lifeboat.

_ Martin. I’m afraid I don’t know where to begin. _

That was it, Martin realized.

He was _ overwhelmed_. Jonathan Sims was overwhelmed by...sandwiches. Alright, then.

Martin was not yet the Martin who could laugh at the scene, and bump Jon’s shoulder to shake him from his reverie—though one day, he would be. So, in that first and most crucial moment, he suppressed his smile, and chose his words so carefully that they seemed entirely unremarkable.

“The egg mayonnaise is pretty good,” he said. “I’ll probably get that myself.”

“Ah,” Jon responded immediately, practically tripping over himself as he followed Martin to the till, “Right you are.”

He could have walked away then. Taken his food and forgotten all about it. But Martin...well, he made a different choice. 

Looking over his shoulder, he smiled.

“Shall we?”


	2. 10 August 2015

The day that he officially became Head Archivist, Jonathan Sims sat in his office—which inspired in him a certain sense of awe, cramped and full of detritus though the place was—and thought. About the case he had left behind in the research department, and whether his notes had been adequate. About the archives, and how he would need to decipher the filing system—surely there was one, there_ had _ to be—before he could so much as gauge how much work there was to be done. 

But what continued to occupy his thoughts more than anything else, much to his irritation, was why, _ why in the name of all things holy _ , in response Elias’s insistence that, “Yes, Jon, it must be _ three _ archival assistants,” he had blurted out the name _ Martin Blackwood_.

Martin Blackwood, of all people.

Well. He wasn’t the Institute’s _ worst _ researcher, Jon supposed. Were he that inefficient, he couldn’t possibly have kept his position for so long… Not with the amount of time he spent _ fetching drinks _ and _ making small talk _ and _ getting underfoot_, in any case. And he clearly wasn’t bad enough for Elias to recommend against—at least not verbally. Jon hadn’t missed his elegantly arching one eyebrow in response to the name, nor the ghost of a smirk that flitted across his face, however.

God. Not in the position twenty-four hours, and already he’d made a fool of himself, hadn’t he?

It would have been explicable, perhaps, were they _ friends_. Still a mark of poor judgment, but there was always a case to be made for the value of genial working relationships. Yet he and Martin didn’t even have _ that_. Martin was _ always there_, yes, but their relationship—a term charitably applied—was...perhaps not hostile, but certainly tense. Discomfiting.

And Jon had never needed to be liked. Particularly not in the workplace. He had long since accepted that some people _ got _ his acerbic humor, while others...did not.

Sasha got it. If Jon made a critical quip, she was quick to respond in kind, a laugh always hidden behind her words. Tim, too, who would grin at Jon’s self-deprecating remarks, or tease him jovially for being a pretentious git. Even their most heated arguments about supernatural architecture were had with an unspoken understanding that this would engender no lasting ill will between them.

Martin, on the other hand... Jon had by now lost count of the amount of times he had clearly taken his _ obvious sarcasm _ seriously, blushing and stammering and retreating meekly in response. And that would have—should have been fine. Jon put plenty of people off. He was used to it. He didn’t care. He had more important concerns.

However, it usually only happened once. Two or three times, perhaps, in the case of the particularly dense. After that, though, they would avoid him outside of strictly professional interactions. Things would settle into a perfectly acceptable state of mutual distaste that required neither party to suffer any future discomfort.

But Martin...Martin never _ went away_. Jon would open his stupid mouth, and Martin would look confused and chagrined, or genuinely hurt. And yet. A day or a week later, there he would be again, hesitantly proffering another damn cup of tea.

It was enough to drive a man mad.

Jon could have put an end to it. He’d had the perfect opportunity, moving down to the archives, where few ever ventured. All he had to do was say literally any other name. But no. _ Martin Blackwood. _

Perhaps Elias would be right to question his competence.

Jon exhaled into his hands. There was nothing for it now. Whatever his reasons—whatever _ the hell _ his reasons were for his choosing Martin as an assistant, he couldn’t afford to rely on him for—anything_. _ He would make do with the other two, and Martin would just…be there. Be there, like he always—

The door opened.

“Hey Jon,” said Martin in his soft, timid way. Because of course it was Martin, carrying mugs in both hands, “Or... Do you want me to call you ‘boss,’ now? Because Tim—”

“Do _ not_,” Jon interrupted with more force than he intended, “The last thing I need is both of you making this weird.” Weirder than it already was.

Martin crossed over to the desk and smiled, and Jon took the mug from him automatically.

“You’ll do fine, Jon.”

It was soothing. Martin’s voice, and the tea.

Which, more than the awkwardness and the twinges of guilt and the tea stains all over his notes, was the _ problem_. Because—

“I don’t know, Martin,” Jon confessed, entirely despite himself. He sighed. “There’s so much here.”

Martin made a soft sound of acknowledgement as he sat down.

They were both quiet for a bit, drinking and looking about the room. Piles upon piles upon shelves. Disorderly boxes and stray papers. Silence and secrets. And all of it hardly a fraction of what awaited outside, in the archives. So much to do, and he didn’t even know where to begin.

“How _ do _ you take your tea, anyway?” asked Martin abruptly, restraining Jon’s attention before it could wander off completely.

“I— What?” Jon blinked at him.

“Your...tea?” repeated Martin, with some trepidation. 

“Martin, you’ve known me for _ four years_. You’re asking this now?”

“Yeah,” Martin said, a hint of indignation creeping into his voice, “I mean, you’ve never deigned to actually tell me. You always just—just wave me off, when I ask.” This was true. “But, well… We’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other now, right?” This was also true, unfortunately. “So I thought… I don’t know, if I’m going to bring you tea, it might as well...be...good?”

Sound logic, admittedly. However.

“It’s...complicated. I don’t care, honestly.”

Martin put his own tea down and folded his arms.

“_Jon._”

For the second time in the last several minutes, Jon sighed. He stared at his hands, now fidgeting with the empty mug on his desk.

“Milk and sugar after lunch,” he mumbled, as quickly as possible, “Just milk the rest of the time. Unless I have a headache. Then...dark. Very.” He risked a glance at Martin—who for some reason was beaming as if he had received a thoughtful gift rather than a rambling set of pointless instructions—and then went back to frowning at the mug. “It’s stupid, really. You don’t need to remember.”

“No,” Martin gently plucked the empty vessel from Jon’s grip as he stood, “I will.”

Jon said nothing. But when Martin stepped back out into the archives, he followed.

And though clarity, he would later think, only found him when it was much too late, out of all the things he had chosen, this was one which he could not bring himself to regret.


	3. 24 August 2015

Martin didn’t regret it. Transferring to the archives with Jon.

Though… At the time, he would very much have liked to know what part of Jon had allowed it. It couldn’t have been the tireless researcher, so keen on chasing leads that he had once nearly brought an entire bookcase down on himself in his haste to pull a volume from the top shelf. Or the uncompromising academic, ever demanding multiple sources before offering even the most tentative credence. And it certainly wasn’t the caustic and condescending part that the...less fortunate were privy to.

There _ was _ the insecure, self-conscious part, largely veiled by hard work and professionalism. Martin wasn’t sure how many people, aside from himself, were even aware of that one. But it didn’t quite fit, either.

_ Some _ part of him could apparently put up with Martin, however, and that meant—something. Enough of something for Martin to tolerate the fact that he had seen more and more of the _ irate _ part of Jon lately.

This was largely unavoidable, Martin understood. He didn’t have Jon’s aptitude, and certainly not his education, so he was hardly going to fail to disappoint in those areas. And sure, sometimes it Jon’s expectations_ were _ unreasonable, but they were the same expectations Jon had for himself, so they couldn’t exactly be called unfair. No, unfair would be blaming Martin for circumstances out of his control, such as, say, two dozen spiders taking up residence in his desk overnight. But not much could get through to Jon when it came to spiders—goodness knows Martin had _ tried_—so...right. Unavoidable.

Well, most of the time, anyway. Admittedly, in this _ particular _ case—

“Good lord, you brought a _ dog _ into the archive?”

...He could have anticipated what Jon’s reaction would be. And he had. He had only hoped that it wouldn’t be so _ soon _.

Martin winced and looked up from his place on the floor, where he was using one of Tim’s sports towels to dry the red setter in question before it shook rainwater all over the statements—an endeavor somewhat hindered by the dog’s persistent attempts to slip from his grasp. Jon stood in the doorway, characteristic grimace of displeasure already firmly in place. He usually shut himself up in his office for at least an hour in the morning, but apparently Martin wasn’t so lucky as for that pattern to hold today.

“It’s_ pouring_,” he pointed out. It was true. The poor thing had looked absolutely miserable out there in the rain. It had no collar, and he didn’t exactly have time to look up a shelter and take it there before the start of the work day, so he had just...brought it along, instead. What else could he do?

Predictably, Jon was not impressed.

“Be that as it may, I _ know _ you’re aware that pets aren’t allowed in the Institute,” he said, frown deepening. His glare could melt iron, and Martin felt his resolve draining by the moment. Jon’s disapproval was hard to take even when it wasn’t so, well...“well-deserved” was a modifier that came to mind.

“I-I know, but— It’s just...” he found himself stammering as he glanced toward Tim for support, but received only a shrug in return, “I thought, you know, if I kept it out of the way, no one would really—” The dog, apparently sensing weakness, chose this moment to bolt free of his grasp and directly at Jon, jumping up to place its forepaws on his chest. “Er...notice?”

Well, shit.

With a sigh of resignation, Martin stood up. He was going to die. Forget the stupid curse that everyone whispered about befalling anyone who went to work in the archives—Jon was going to murder him. And Jon was nothing if not thorough. No one would ever find his remains.

“Aw, boss, he wuvs you!” quipped Tim, as the dog wagged its tail with gusto.

Martin closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face, vaguely wondering whether he had time to murder Tim before Jon came for him.

“Yes, Tim, I can see that,” Jon replied, dry as ever. “Martin…”

He had clearly paused to make sure that he had Martin’s attention, which left little choice but to make eye contact.

“U-Um, yes?”

“I suppose we’ll just have to hope that Elias doesn’t come down here today. But do keep it out of sight of the doorway.”

...What.

“And _ don’t _ do this again,” Jon continued before Martin could articulate his confusion, scratching the dog behind the ears, “It’s hardly conducive to productivity.”

Martin had the strangest urge to laugh. His chest felt...odd.

Maybe it was related to the shock of discovering that he was not about to be destroyed. Or not. Either way, it was probably best not examined at the moment. He needed the time to stop himself gaping. And he should say something. Jon was looking at him as if he expected a reply. He should really—

“I’ve got batteries!” announced Sasha, bursting into the archive, “Now we can try out that ta— _ Puppy!_”

Jon rolled his eyes, gently taking the dog’s paws and depositing them back on the floor as Sasha ran up to pet it. Giving a little whoop of triumph—as if he’d been any help whatsoever—Tim joined her.

Martin...was still staring at Jon, who, in turn, was looking down at the other two with something akin to fondness. His heart still beating wildly, he took a deep breath and walked over, stepping carefully around Sasha to stand at Jon’s side and earning himself a quizzical glance.

“Er...thank you,” he managed.

“Please, Martin,” Jon scoffed, before his tone softened, “I’m not a complete monster.”

“Yeah.” Martin said quietly. “Yeah, I— I know.”

He did. He would.


	4. 12 March 2016

Jon peered down a nearby alley. It was empty, or so it seemed. He turned to look over his shoulder. Nothing following them. For now.

His shoulder bumped Martin’s, and they _ both _ jumped. He sighed. So did Martin.

“This is ridiculous.” They wouldn’t be here if Jane Prentiss were at all likely to attack in broad daylight. And if she did, well, the few seconds that they might gain by spotting her before she popped out of the hedges or...whatever it was they were expecting wouldn’t make a difference.

As they resumed walking, Martin gave a short, nervous laugh. 

“I’m, um…” he breathed in deeply, running a hand through his hair. Jon noticed that he was still walking closer than was strictly necessary. “Thank you for...well, all of this, I guess? I— You didn’t need to—”

Jon scoffed, cutting him off.

“I’d rather not lose _ two _ assistants to murderous worms, if it’s all the same to you,” he said. “And I could hardly ask Elias. He...” _ doesn’t take you seriously, _ “...isn’t about to send another member of staff on an errand in the middle of the workday at my request.”

Which left _ him _ to accompany Martin back to his flat to fetch whatever belongings he might need. There wasn’t much choice. The cot was...serviceable, but the archives were hardly a luxury hotel, and Jon did prefer that his staff changed clothing at least occasionally.

“Right. I just— I appreciate it.”

Jon scowled, resisting the urge to tell him that he _ shouldn’t. _ That dealing with the fallout was rather the least one could do after nearly getting his assistant murdered by worms. Instead, he climbed the stairs to Martin’s flat, said assistant following at his heels.

There certainly was an...amount of worm corpses around Martin’s door jamb. Judging by their size, it was actually rather impressive that he had managed to keep them sealed out of the flat proper. For _ thirteen days_. While Jon had been—

Regardless. They were gone now. Prentiss had said she was through with...whatever she had been playing at. Wanted Martin alive, presumably, for _ when the Archivist’s crimson fate arrives. _

She wouldn’t be here. And Martin would have left the door unlocked in his haste to vacate the premises. So Jon… He could just open it. There was no need for him to stand here, hand on the doorknob, feeling—

Well. Like he very much did _ not _ want to open that door.

“Jon,” said Martin from behind him, “If you want, I can go fir—”

“_No_,” he snapped, “You stay here.” There weren’t any worms. There _ weren’t_, but...someone had to make sure of it. _ He _ had to.

_ I didn’t want to come back to you without due diligence, though—I’ve learned that lesson. _

God _ damn _ it.

He took a deep breath, and let himself in.

The interior of the flat was dark, but thankfully normal. Well, no: _ normal _ wasn’t the word for it. A pile of laundry by the front door, stained by what could only be described as “filth” seeping in from outside wasn’t _ normal _ . Forlorn stacks of empty food cans weren’t _ normal _ . A bare mattress wasn’t _ normal, _nor was the way in which the sheets that had previously belonged to it were now stuffed between the nearby window pane and its frame. And the whole place was in an advanced state of disarray. But his investigation of assorted closets and corners revealed no signs of malevolent worm infestation, so it would do.

He told Martin as much, himself moving back to the doorway to stand guard as the other man packed. Which he did with some haste, haphazardly tossing an assortment of clothes, toiletries, and other personal effects into a small suitcase. Jon only watched, occasionally turning to make sure nothing was coming for them from outside.

Then a door in one of the neighboring flats slammed, and Martin yelped, dropping the composition notebook he had been holding.

He glanced at Jon and flushed, giving another breathy laugh. As if being scared when it was perfectly logical to be scared was anything to be _ ashamed _ of. Jon nearly bit out a _ Don’t be stupid, Martin, _but—

_ I was worried I hadn’t really done enough investigation for you, since I got so freaked out by the basement and all. _

“...It’s alright, Martin,” was what he said instead, though he tasted the lie of it before it even left his lips. What had happened here was not the least bit _ alright _ , and Martin wasn’t alright, and he was fairly sure nothing was going to _ be _ alright henceforth.

Martin turned to give him a smile all the same, though. Which was almost as frustrating as the rest of it combined, because...because, in spite of everything, it was always _ Martin _ making _ him _ feel better. Even though _ he _ had been perfectly safe and comfortable for the last two weeks, while _ Martin _ had not. Even though _ he _ would still be going home every day, while _ Martin _ would be living in a dingy storage space. Even though—

_ You’re always so quick to dismiss these statements, and I wanted proof for you. _

Jon squeezed his eyes shut briefly. Then he looked at Martin, zipping his meager suitcase.

“I’m sorry, Martin.”

“Wh-What?” Martin looked up, “What for?”

“For…” He didn’t have the words for it. Suspected, somehow, that he never would. “Sending you to investigate the Vittery case, I suppose.”

“Oh! I mean, it’s not your fault, Jon. You couldn’t have known.”

But he _ had _ known. Perhaps not about Prentiss specifically, but that _ something _ was wrong with the Vittery statement. And when Martin hadn’t answered his calls, he had known. Deep down, he had _ known _ . But he hadn’t wanted to believe it, even _ now _ didn’t want to believe it, because that would mean—

He could have told Martin, then. He _ should _ have told Martin, even if it meant facing those horrible truths that had been lurking in the back of his mind all along. Even if it meant facing them _ alone _.

But he hadn’t. Instead, he had taken Martin’s suitcase from his hand, and started back toward the Magnus Institute.

“Nevertheless...I’m sorry.”

_ For lying to you then. For lying to you still. _


	5. 13 May 2016

For all he had misunderstood, and doubted, and...somehow completely overlooked, Martin had figured out fairly early on that Jon _ cared_.

He had known it even before Elias had said that they were overreacting to all of this “worm nonsense,” strongly suggesting that Martin move out of the archives, but it made him happy that Jon had refused to so much as consider it, anyway. His exact words had been, “I suppose you’ll have to fire me, then,” which was...nice. Yeah.

He was never quite able to work out whether Jon cared about him as a person, or an assistant, or whether the idea of having his staff eaten alive by _ worms _ of all things simply offended him—that did seem like the kind of weird hang-up Jon would have—but still. He was glad that someone would be at least mildly put out if he died. Being trapped in one’s flat for a fortnight did tend to make one wonder.

Of course, Jon’s genuine concern over Prentiss—despite his continued stubborn insistence that she was nothing supernatural—probably should have worried him. Hearing Jon ask his tape recorder _ What is she waiting for? _ as he sat outside his office in the early morning, listening to him record a statement, _ certainly _ should have worried him. But, having lived through what he had...well, there was nothing much anyone else’s fear could do to raise the amount of anxiety Martin was already living with. He was pretty much full up. So he just checked that the spare CO2 canisters were all where he had left them, and went to make Jon some tea.

“Good morning, Jon.” He didn’t bother to knock. Jon was used to his morning appearances by now, and simply gestured for him to set down the tea on the desk.

“Thank you, Martin.” Upon closer inspection, Jon looked...awful. Even worse than his usual state of perpetual tiredness—at least that was accompanied by a sort of...frenetic energy born of sheer will. Now, though, he was slumped down in his chair, and genuinely didn’t seem to possess the ability to sit up straight. Even his gaze was unfocused. _ Drained _, Martin thought. He picked the mug back up and handed it to Jon directly instead.

“Are you— I mean, you don’t _ look _ okay?”

“It’s normal,” Jon said, taking a sip, “Just a statement. I really shouldn’t have done it first thing, but I knew I’d be dreading it all day otherw—” he bit his lip, glaring at the tea as if it had tricked him into revealing government secrets. Martin wasn’t fazed. This happened a lot.

“That one did sound pretty bad,” he said gently, “At least— Well, being chased through the woods isn’t my idea of relaxing.”

Jon’s gaze snapped up.

“_Martin_.” 

Oh dear. That was the sort of tone that left Martin with no doubt that Jon had decided he had done something wrong, and was about to tell him what in excruciating detail.

“Yes?” he squeaked—somewhat guiltily, which was stupid. It wasn’t like he was...up to something, or anything. Jon could hardly fault him for _ bringing tea_. Or...well, he could, but he wouldn’t be _ right_.

“Were you _ listening? _”

“I… Er, yes? I just—” Alright, maybe he _ had _ done something wrong, because he was struggling to think of a reason beyond _ I really like your voice_, “I didn’t have anything else to do, and I didn’t want to interrupt…”

“I don’t want you listening to them,” Jon said sharply, “I don’t want _ any _ of you listening to them more than necessary.”

“But,” Martin protested, because that really was a bit unfair, wasn’t it, what with him being trapped in the archives surrounded by statements, and Jon’s way of reading them the only even vaguely nice thing about the whole affair, “We have to read them anyway? For the...the follow-up. So...”

“_Don’t_,” Jon said again, louder. But before Martin could get properly annoyed that he wouldn’t even _ listen_, he slumped back into his chair, like a puppet with the strings cut. Rubbing a hand over his face, he sunk down even further than before. “Please.”

And he looked so tired, so...resigned, somehow, that Martin couldn’t not agree. Reluctantly.

“Fine.”

“Good.”

They were silent for a minute that seemed like an eternity, neither seeming to want to look at the other.

“Look,” Martin sighed, “Maybe we can...go outside and get some fresh air or—” He didn’t know. He didn’t know, and Jon certainly wouldn’t go for that idea, wouldn’t leave the office at the very beginning of business hours just because—well, because the place wasn’t doing either of them any favors, at the moment, and honestly? Honestly, Martin couldn’t stand to be stuck there any longer, with the gloom and the fear and the never quite knowing where he stood.

Not that he had a choice.

“...Alright,” Jon said quietly. Martin turned to face him so quickly that he was lucky he didn’t pull anything.

“Y-Yeah?”

Jon, shrugged, pushing away from the desk and standing.

“You watch my back, I’ll watch yours.”

And it really wasn’t a lot, the chance to go on a walk, and stomp on some worms, and stop by the bookshop for something that wasn’t statements. But it helped. It mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, remember when things were only sort of a mess, instead of a total mess?
> 
> Anywho, thank you for reading thus far! The chapters covering seasons two and three will be up within a week!


	6. 15 August 2016

Jon arrived at the Institute early on Monday morning, well before opening hours. He reasoned that it would give him a bit of time to readjust before having to deal with the rest of the staff—and if he also got the chance to sweep the archives for anything that might point toward Gertrude’s murderer before they caught wind of his return, well, so much the better.

In daylight, the archives looked markedly less sinister than when he had come to explore the tunnels, and they were well on their way to being restored to their previous state. Which, granted, was one of poorly organized chaos, but nevertheless: the statements that had not been filed in at least temporary homes numbered remarkably few, considering. Someone must have been working overtime, which didn’t make any sense, unless—

Unless they were _ also _ searching for evidence. Or concealing it. 

Jon frowned to himself. His steps quickened as he made his way to his office, though he hardly noticed. Not until he collided with someone in the open doorway, at least. 

“_Christ, Martin_,” he hissed before even fully registering that it was, in fact, Martin.

“Hello, Jon.” Martin didn’t sound terribly pleased himself.

Which might be accounted for by the fact that Jon had just barreled into him. Although… What was he doing here so early to begin with? Moreover, why was he in _ Jon’s _ office? It was almost as if, he thought wildly, Martin had _ expected _ this, had prepared— 

No. Surely not. There was no way he could have known that Jon would return to work so soon, and he certainly hadn’t positioned himself in this very doorway to prevent him finding out some sinister secret. Not everything had to be related to Gertrude’s murder, least of all Martin’s presence in his own place of employment.

...It was, however, irritating. Particularly as he showed no sign of moving.

“If you don’t mind, Martin, I’d like to access my office sometime today,” Jon said.

Apparently Martin _ did _ mind, as rather than get out of the way, he stood a little bit straighter—which was entirely uncalled for, as he was already _ quite _tall enough—and fixed Jon with a stern glare.

“You’re meant to be taking time off.”

Ah. That was a plausible explanation for Martin’s behavior, if not his presence. He did tend to...fuss.

“It’s been more than two weeks already,” Jon replied in his most dismissive tone, knowing from experience that any sign of weakness at this crucial juncture would tip the scales in Martin’s favor. He made to push past into the office anyway, but Martin braced one arm against the door frame, barring his passage.

“I’m not letting you through. Go home, Jon.”

“You can’t—” He made a noise of frustration as he attempted to duck under Martin’s arm, only for him to lean over and close the gap, “What, are you planning to stand here all day?”

“If that’s what it takes,” Martin replied, sliding smoothly to block the other side of the doorway as Jon made a dash for it. A brief but earnest struggle ensued.

“I could take this up with...Elias,” Jon grunted, pushing hard against Martin’s shoulder in hopes that it might dislodge his arm. Unfortunately, Martin’s fingers were firmly hooked around the door frame for leverage.

“And he’d tell you the same thing!” Waves of exasperation practically radiated off Martin as he used his other arm to pry Jon away from him, “For god’s sake, Jon! You need to _ rest! _”

He finally succeeded in getting hold of both of Jon’s shoulders to stop him darting forward again, though his grip was gentle—something for which Jon was privately grateful. He was mainly continuing to wear bandages to hide the rather grotesque appearance of his slowly scarring wounds at this point, but, whether due to supernatural influence or as a result of his exertions in the tunnels, beneath the surface they still _ hurt_. 

Not that he was going to admit it. Least of all when Martin’s needless concern—if that was truly what it was—was keeping him from fetching the Blake and Bilham statements from his _ own office_.

When his only answer was a scowl, Martin sighed. “You’re a menace, do you know that?”

“_You’re _ here,” Jon said petulantly.

“I— What?”

“You’re not still living in the archives,” he explained irritably, “And I _ know _ that Elias gave you and Sasha leave as well.” It was a perfectly cogent argument: Martin had been attacked by worms _ twice_, and he had been the one to discover Gertrude’s body. If _ he _ was here, Jon certainly had every right to be.

“He did, but…” Martin hesitated.

“Yet here you are.”

“Well, yeah…”

_ “Why? _” The question came out sounding more aggressive than he had really meant it to. But it was frustrating. He had come to the archives in hopes that reviewing the statements that appeared to have some connection to Gertrude’s death might provide answers, yet all he’d gained was cause to worry about what Martin was up to.

Martin himself was looking distinctly uncomfortable now. His hands had dropped from Jon’s shoulders, and his gaze kept drifting between Jon’s bandaged hands and an unremarkable floorboard some distance to the right.

“Well, someone needs to get the place organized—or, you know, ‘organized,’ so I thought—”

“You know perfectly well that _ that _ would be far more efficiently accomplished with all four of us,” Jon retorted before Martin could even finish, not about to let him off with such a transparent excuse when he had so many _ questions_. “So _ why are you here? _”

“Because I’m _ fine! _” Martin snapped, his voice cracking. There was a moment in which Jon simply stared at him, slightly agape, before he raised his gaze. “You saw,” he continued with a shaky and mirthless laugh, “There was barely a scratch on me.”

As Jon looked at Martin, fists clenched, the memory of it doused him like a bucket of ice water. How he had interrogated him when they were both exhausted to the point of tears. _ She was shot! Three shots to the chest_, had managed to stay with him. But there had been something else, choked and somber.

_ I’m sorry I left you. _

He hadn’t given it a thought since.

And he should have, really, because he had known. He had known that Martin was the sort of person to bring you tea right after you’d called his Latin atrocious. The sort of person who would wish you a good night as you closed the door behind you, leaving him alone in the darkened and deserted archives. The sort of person who would _ apologize _ for _ not being mauled by worms _ as you forced him to relive his trauma.

_ Of course _ Martin felt guilty.

God. Jon even knew the feeling—the oddly specific, worm-related feeling. Yet he hadn’t so much as considered it.

Amid the thunderous silence, he cleared his throat.

“I, er— I'll go home.”

“Y-You will?” Martin started.

“If you insist.” It probably wasn’t the wisest course of action. It would set his investigation back by days at least, give Gertrude’s murderer an even bigger lead… But Martin wore a small, hopeful smile now, so he hardly had a choice. “Just...don’t overwork yourself. It’s not worth it,” he said, turning to leave.

Many things, Jon knew, were not worth the work that Martin put into them.

He wasn’t sure they ever would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random mid-fic shout-out to Aza for the Magnus Timeline, without which I would have gone even more nuts while trying to figure out when these chapters would have taken place!


	7. 10 November 2016

Jonathan Sims was not, traditionally, known for his ability to read a room. He was always too distracted, too disinclined, too...very well, _ dense _ to pick up on others’ emotions. It would, however, have been difficult for even one such as himself to miss the cues in this case.

After Martin had revealed to him the nature of his long-kept secret, Jon had sat motionless behind his desk for nearly half an hour, waiting for the giddy waves of relief and lingering tension of his earlier panic to die down. He was just beginning to feel calm enough to return to work when his door burst open, said panic returning in full force.

Martin slammed the door behind him, striding straight up to Jon’s desk before putting his hands to his hips, the portrait of indignation.

“Did you think I was planning to _ murder _ you?”

_ Well, obviously, _ Jon fortunately did not say aloud. That it had taken Martin so long to work that out was baffling.

Though...Martin _ had _ seemed seriously concerned that Jon would fire him over the matter. It wasn’t quite an irrational fear: had this all come to light a year earlier, Jon might have considered it, absurd as the idea now seemed. At this point, however, he wasn’t inclined to ask Martin to leave over anything short of...well, murder. And he had assumed that Martin knew that. He thought—

“I see,” Martin said, Jon’s prolonged silence being, apparently, confirmation enough.

It was at this point that Jon became vaguely aware of a certainty within himself that if Martin _ had _ been the murdering sort, this encounter would be over already.

“Martin...” he began, despite having no idea what one was meant to say in this situation. But with one last grimace in his general direction, Martin had turned on his heel and was gone.

So...Martin was furious. That, at least, was nothing new. Jon made Martin angry all the time. Only—Martin’s anger generally only resulted in him putting his tea down on the desk rather more loudly than necessary, and maybe refusing to make eye contact. At worst, there would be a bit of a telling off. With how disturbingly quick to forgive he was, it had never taken more than a day for Martin to recover his usual warmth toward Jon.

Not this time.

This time, it had been three days. _ Three days_, and Martin hadn’t spoken to him beyond what was professionally necessary. Hadn’t casually suggested that he was going out to lunch, and had Jon eaten yet, and oh, well, in that case, he had better come along. Hadn’t stopped by on his way out of the office to say ‘goodnight, Jon, make sure you go home soon.’

_ Hadn’t brought him any tea. _

And, if he were honest with himself, Jon had to admit that in confronting Martin, he _ had _been rather…

...All right, _ awful _ . A complete ass. _ Again_.

He had been hasty, angry, out-of-control. It was just— He simply couldn’t countenance the thought that, after _ everything_, it might have been _ Martin _ who had been lying all along. Who had been hiding some _ agenda _ behind all of his concerned fussing and gentle chiding and hesitant smiles. The idea that he’d been working alongside someone who wanted him dead was terrifying, no matter who, but… It would be worse, somehow, if it were Martin.

He couldn’t explain that. It wouldn’t make much of an excuse, in any case. But he had to say _ something_. He couldn’t work like this. Neither of them could, he reasoned, taking his bag and making his way out into the archives.

Jon was relieved to see that Martin was still in his seat, sorting through newspaper clippings regarding the Daedalus. The room was also blessedly devoid of Tim and Sasha. He sidled up to the worn wooden desk and cleared his throat.

“Something I can help you with, Jon?” Martin did not look up.

“I…” This was a stupid idea, wasn’t it? “I wondered if you might want to…” he tried not to wince preemptively, “get...lunch?”

Martin snorted softly. He did look up, then, tossing the folder of clippings to his desk as he did so.

“What, not afraid I’m going to poison your drink when you’re not looking?”

Jon...deserved that.

“Listen, Martin, I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. It was uncalled for, and I—”

Martin held up one hand to stop him rambling.

“I don’t _ care _ how you speak to me, Jon,” he said, grimacing. At least he was making eye contact now, even if only to glare. Something about the expression reminded Jon, distantly and absurdly, of Georgie Barker. “If I did, don’t you think I would’ve quit ages ago?”

Jon privately doubted that. Nevertheless...point taken.

“For...not trusting you, then,” he ventured. “I’m...sorry.”

“Right,” scoffed Martin, not bothering to hide his skepticism.

“I _ am_,” Jon insisted. He _ was_. Unfortunately, he was also feeling ever more woefully underprepared for this interaction by the moment.

“But you still don’t, do you? Trust me.” Martin’s tone said that this was established fact, but something in the purse of his lips and how his gaze flickered as he looked at him told Jon that he wanted an answer.

So—temporarily setting aside the mystery of when he’d become so familiar with Martin’s facial expressions—Jon considered the question. Really, seriously considered it. He _ thought _he trusted Martin. Mostly. And how...hurt he had seemed by the CV incident did, horribly, go some way toward reassuring him that he genuinely cared. A bit more evidence wouldn’t go amiss, perhaps, but—

Well, he couldn’t tell Martin _ that_. He frowned, twisting the strap of his shoulder bag with both hands.

Of course, he couldn’t _ not _ tell him, either. This was clearly important to Martin, and Martin... 

Well, Jon was here having this excruciating conversation for _ some _ reason, wasn’t he? And really, how unpalatable he found the suggestion that Martin couldn’t be trusted was an answer in and of itself. Maybe not the _ right _ answer, but an honest one.

“I want to.”

And he _ knew _ it was honest, as the words rushed out of him, because it was like letting out a breath he’d been holding for days.

Martin, for his part, opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it to bite his lip. He also flushed ever so slightly, which was at least a comfort insofar as it indicated that Jon wasn’t the only one who found this incredibly awkward. He did his best not to look away as Martin considered him.

Then Martin stood up, and Jon fleetingly wondered if he was about to be shouted at some more.

“There’s a new Thai place opened up,” Martin said instead, taking his jacket from the back of his chair. “Shall we try that?”

Jon, already off balance from having instinctively taken a step back, nearly collapsed as he felt the tension drain from him at last. He _ did _ collide with the edge of the desk in his haste to follow Martin to the door.

“Y-Yes. Let’s… Yes.”

He wasn’t an idiot. He knew that this changed nothing.

But it changed nothing in the same way that being offered a cup of tea while one stanched the flow of blood from a supernatural shoulder wound changed nothing. And that, evidently, was the sort of nothing that was everything that he couldn’t stand to be without.


	8. 11 February 2017

Under the reading table, Martin drummed his fingers on his knee. His other hand turned the page of some statement that Sasha had asked him to take a look at: she wanted a second opinion, apparently, before bringing it up with Jon. It was about—he wasn’t sure, actually. Insomnia? Nightmares? Coffee adverts? It would have been hard enough to get through, rambling and nonsensical as it was, even were he paying proper attention.

Which he wasn’t, naturally, because _ that woman—_Basira, or whatever her name was—had been in Jon’s office for...nearly twenty minutes, now.

It was bad enough that she came and went from the archives as she pleased. Bad enough that Tim’s conspiratorial winks to her, which Martin had previously been trying very hard to write off as just...Tim, had turned to pointedly arched brows in her direction when his relationship with Jon had soured. Bad enough that Jon always seemed to be in a slightly better mood after she had visited.

No, the worst part was that today, Jon had _ brought her tea_. He usually didn’t even remember to make _ himself _ tea—not that he needed to, obviously, as Martin liked doing it for him—let alone fetch some for anyone else! But apparently, _ that woman _ merited special consideration. And now she’d been in there for _ twenty minutes_.

...Well, more like fifteen, since Jon had gone back in with the tea, but that was still a long time, wasn’t it? He bit his lip, and reread the same sentence for approximately the sixth time.

He knew that this wasn’t how he was supposed to feel. Maybe they _ were _ friends—god, he _ hoped _ they were friends—but Jon’s...relationships...were really none of his business. Besides, when someone you cared for was happy, you were supposed to be happy for them. That was how it worked. For good people, anyway.

Martin supposed he wasn’t a very good person, as when Basira slammed the office door and strode out of the archives, he felt a twinge of vindictive triumph. Followed by a guilty impulse to make sure that Jon was alright.

“Hey, Jon?” he poked his head into the office, where Jon was resting his forehead on his hands.

“Oh. Martin.” Jon lifted his head, and gave Martin something of an expectant look. At which point Martin realized that he hadn’t actually come up with an excuse to be in here.

“I, uh…” he fished around for any work-related needs that might explain his presence, but none were forthcoming, so he just...gave up. “What _ was _ that?”

“...Ah. Shut the door,” Jon said calmly, much to Martin’s relief. He took a seat across the desk as Jon continued, “Basira was just giving a statement.”

“Oh!” Martin exclaimed, then winced at how inordinately pleased he sounded. Thankfully, Jon was too distracted to notice.

“Yes… About Maxwell Rayner.”

“What? The cult guy?” Jon nodded.

“Apparently the police had something of a run-in with him. I don’t quite know what to make of it,” he sighed, pensive. Martin watched him sink his chin back onto his hands, frowning, as his gaze drifted to one of his drawers. 

He had just come to the conclusion that Jon had forgotten he was there when he spoke again.

“Martin.”

“Y-Yes?” he stammered in surprise.

“If I die—and I don’t mean that in the sense of ‘if one of you murders me,’ specifically,” he said, raising a hand to preempt Martin’s interruption, “There’s a loose floorboard, just behind my chair here. Underneath it you will find several recordings you won’t have heard, as well as…” he paused, running a hand through his hair, “copies of others that include my private notes.”

Martin gaped at him. What on earth had been in that statement?

It wasn’t hard to believe that Jon had been hiding an entire collection of tapes underneath the flooring. All things considered, actually, it was probably one of the less bizarre things he’d done these past months. No, the odd part was...

“Why are you telling me this?”

Jon grimaced, as if not keen on explaining himself any further. But he did anyway.

“I put a note in my desk some time ago, but…” he leaned back in his chair, casting his eyes about the shelves that surrounded them, “There’s so much I don’t know, Martin. And I...I want _ someone _ to figure it out.”

That made sense, yeah. Despite everything that had happened afterward, Martin hadn’t forgotten what Jon had told them as they huddled in document storage.

_ I refuse to become another goddamn mystery. _

But...

“But why _ me_?” he pressed, before he could stop himself.

Jon looked at him as if he were the stupidest person alive.

“Who else is there?”

_ The policewoman you were just talking to five minutes ago? _ was Martin’s immediate thought. Or her detective friend. Or anyone Jon hadn’t recently suspected was trying to kill him. Even if he were choosing from the suspect list, Martin would have expected Jon to go to Elias or Sasha if he needed something _ figured out_. 

But Jon was asking _ him_.

Well...he had been trying to patch things up between them lately, hadn’t he? Answering Martin’s questions, including ones that weren’t work-related, and accepting lunch invitations without complaint. He had even asked him to take a spider outside instead of killing it, the other day. 

Maybe… Maybe all of that wasn’t just because Martin was the only one willing to meet him halfway. Maybe Jon really had decided to trust him. A giddy sort of warmth bubbled up in him at the thought.

“Um...yeah. I—” he said intelligently, surely inspiring confidence in Jon that he had chosen the correct person to solve his own murder should the need arise. Deep breaths, Martin. “Sure. I’ll do it.”

He would do anything, he thought, if it would prove Jon’s faith in him right.


	9. 28 April 2017

Jon blew through the archives like a storm, jaw set and shoulders pressed forward as if he were fighting an opposing gale. His hurried strides took him directly to the office that, through prolonged absence and murder investigation, had waited for him. The door shuddered violently as it shut behind him.

None of the others reacted to his passing. They had all returned early from the meeting with Elias and promptly dispersed across the archive, each embroiled in their own thoughts. Melanie was in storage, brooding. Daisy and Basira continued their involved conversation through quick and vehement whispers in the corner. Tim resolutely refused to look up from his book.

So it was only Martin that rose, quietly, once the archivist had hidden himself away. Who moved with soft steps to the kettle, and ignored Tim’s derisive snort as he returned with a mug filled with tea.

In his office, Jon was standing near a shelf, rifling through statements. He didn’t notice Martin enter. His hands were shaking badly, and as Martin moved to set the mug down on the desk, the papers slipped through his fingers, falling into disarray on the floor.

There were so many things he’d been planning to say to Jon, had saved up over the weeks he’d been gone. Small things. Important things. Things Jon needed to know, and things he’d regretted not saying before. But he forgot all of them at the sight of the helpless exhaustion on his face.

“Jon,” he said quietly. For the first time in—over a year, Martin realized, Jon jumped at the sound of his voice.

Jon had that familiar look of relief as he blinked at him, though, which was more than enough cause for Martin to spring into action. He quickly stepped around the desk and put a hand on Jon’s shoulder.

“Here, sit down,” he said, gently guiding Jon into his chair and scooting the mug toward him, “I made tea.”

“Thank you.” Jon’s tone had none of the usual vigor to it—it wasn’t confident, or commanding, or sarcastic, or scathing. It was just...soft. So soft, and so sincere.

It was breathtaking.

Martin tried very hard not to imagine what his own name would sound like, if Jon spoke it like that. Or the...various situations in which that might occur.

Um. Right.

“What were you looking for?” he asked, hastily bending down to clear up the papers on the floor.

“The, uh…” Jon cleared his throat, “the Denikin statement. With the calliope. I don’t—” he hesitated, “I’d rather the paper version.”

“Right, I can find that for you,” Martin said in what he hoped was a sufficiently reassuring manner.

As he looked through the shelves, refiling the statements Jon had dropped and pulling Denikin’s from the 2000–2010 (Taped) section, he wondered what Elias could possibly have said to put Jon in such a state. He seemed like he had already known about the..._multiple murders, _ Christ, and about Sasha’s— No, now was _ not _ the time to process _ that_. 

But it wasn’t just Elias, was it? Martin had seen the bandages on Jon’s hand. Seen Jon’s _ throat. _ And, when he turned back to the desk to offer up the statement, he saw something else.

Jon was still seated, holding the tea. Well, _ holding _ was hardly the right word: he was clutching the mug in both hands, gripping it so fiercely that Martin was half-surprised it didn’t shatter. It must have hurt. It _ had _ to hurt, given how hot the mug was. Yet Jon was clinging to it like a lifeline. His head was bowed over it, and he was silently shaking.

He was crying. _ Jon _ was crying.

_ What in god’s name happened? _

Martin suppressed the urge to demand answers. To pull Jon close and never let him go. To stroke his hair and whisper that it would be alright. He was quite sure that Jon would welcome none of that.

Instead, he sat down on the opposite side of the desk and reached out. Placing his hand gently over Jon’s unbandaged one, he used his thumb to nudge at the side of Jon’s palm until he had coaxed him into relaxing his grip. Then he pulled the whole hand free, and carefully covered it with both of his own.

For a minute, nothing happened. Then Jon’s other hand slid off the side of the mug, and he was clutching at Martin’s, and Martin was letting out a breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding.

They sat there like that, in silence, clinging to each other. If only he had something to offer. Something _real_. Something more substantial than endless mugs of tea.

It was Jon, of course, who slowly separated their hands. And Martin missed him already, because he knew where this was heading before Jon said _ I have to go_.

He wished he could stop him. He wished he had the courage to try. Instead, he only smiled, and gave his reassurance that he would be there when Jon returned. 

However little that was worth, in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you ever just think about that time jon got burned and then dropped through the sky and then saw a guy get shot and then nearly got murdered and then got told he was turning into a monster and it was all his fault? because that probably sucked


	10. 27 June 2017

Jon woke up in his Pittsburgh hotel room feeling fine. Oddly fine, for someone who had so recently collapsed face-down on the bed feeling bone-tired and nauseated. The setting sun cast an orange glow through the break in the heavy curtains, gently illuminating the cramped room. He mustn’t have been asleep terribly long. 

He tried to suppress the dread rising in him at the thought of the most likely explanation for his swift recovery, instead peeling his face from the stiff bedspread to grab his phone off the nightstand. He had only intended to confirm the time, but his eyes were drawn to a message notification on the lock screen. Martin.

_ jon, are you alright? _

Guilt washed over him. He had forgotten to reply after Martin had sent him the station address this morning, hadn’t he? A simple “thank you” would have sufficed, but he had been so desperate to finish investigating Gertrude’s arrest before he collapsed that it had slipped his mind entirely. And now Martin had doubtless begun fretting over whether he was being moisturized to within an inch of his life again. It would be past midnight over there, at this point, but still...

_ Fine. _ He typed. And then, remembering Martin’s distraught face as he apologized, nonsensically, for not having rescued him from Nikola, _ I’m sorry I didn’t reply earlier. _

The response was almost immediate.

_ oh, good! just checking, haha _

Jon stared at the screen, wondering if he should say something else. He wanted to say...something else.

Martin beat him to it.

_ how’s america? _

...Not an easy question. He thought of the police officer, who he’d now seen in two distant cities, and who was almost certainly following him. (Alternatively: he was descending into paranoia again. Fantastic.) He thought of his sudden illness, and even more sudden recovery. He thought of the rather disturbing statement that he had read hours before. Then he rolled over on the hard mattress.

_ Could be worse, I suppose. The Institute? _

Martin’s answer was significantly longer in coming this time. Jon frowned.

_ there’s a statement you should hear when you get back _

A statement. Meaning that Martin was still reading them. Of course he was—Elias had been entirely unfazed by Jon’s protests about the others recording them in his absence.

He didn’t _ like _ it. Liked even less that Martin was taking the brunt of it. The statement were meant to be his responsibility, the archivist’s burden to bear. And if his current state was any indication, he had been quite right to feel that way.

He would need to have another talk with Elias. As soon as possible.

_ Understood. I’ll be there as soon as I can. _

If Martin’s previous message had taken suspiciously long, this one was far too quick.

_ oh i didn’t mean to worry you! we’re fine really _

_ It’s not that, _ he typed, though it very much _ was _ that. _ Frankly, this is starting to seem like a wild goose chase anyway. _

_ well we’d be happy to have you back :) _

Jon snorted. He resisted the urge to fire back an _ Oh yes, I’m sure Tim misses me dearly. _

After all, it was nice to know that one person could still tolerate his presence—still cared about him, stubbornly, despite his never having done anything to deserve it. Even if said person did clumsily obfuscate this fact with an absurd insistence on the plural.

_ Thank you, Martin. Now get some sleep. _

_ alright! goodnight jon _

It occurred to him that he hadn’t really said any of the things he ought to have said. Wanted to say. But when had he ever?

_ Goodnight. _


	11. 3 August 2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't read this one if you don't wanna feel sad about tim. or like, everything in general. fyi

The sun had not yet fully risen when Jon stepped through the Institute’s large double doors. It didn’t really matter when they left—none of them had been able to get much sleep lately, and they would be just as well off sitting around at the bed-and-breakfast as they were here.

Only Martin had come outside to see them off, though Jon suspected Elias was doing so in his own fashion, comfortably ensconced in his office though he was. Melanie had merely given them a terse nod on their way out of the archives. Jon didn’t blame her. There was nothing words could change, now.

Daisy and Basira brought the car round, the C4 already packed as safely as could be managed into its boot. Tim moved to join them, but paused mid-step. Then he turned to Martin, extending his hand.

Martin looked just about as surprised as Jon felt, but grabbed Tim’s hand with one of his, then the other.

“Tim—” Martin’s voice was elevated in the way Jon recognized as meaning that he was either about to cry or yell at somebody. Tim clearly heard it as well, and cut him off with a slight shake of the head.

“Take care, Martin,” he said, and then he had turned, and was walking away toward the car, leaving Martin to slowly lower his now empty hands. They curled into fists at his sides.

“You too,” Martin called, and just for a moment, Tim looked back. He raised one hand in a casual wave, and despite the hard edge to his smirk, outlined by the rising light, Jon could almost imagine that none of it had ever happened. That Tim was heading off on one of his outdoor adventures, and would saunter into the office in a week’s time, sunburned but grinning. From the tiny, choked noise he heard, he knew Martin saw it too.

There was no point in regret, now, but Jon felt it anyway.

The slam of the car door snapped him from his reverie, and he was suddenly aware that, if he turned his head, Martin would be looking at him. What would Jon see in his face, if he were to look? Concern? Fear? Resignation? In any case, he wasn’t sure he could meet his eyes. If he did, he’d have to— 

But Martin deserved better than for Jon to walk away. Better than all the nothing that Jon had always given him. So he looked.

And he saw Martin’s sharp intake of breath, the way his lip trembled as he gave a small smile. He saw the sadness and the worry and the fierceness in his eyes, all cut through with that spark of hope that he always seemed to conjure up at the most unlikely of times.

God _ damn _ it, why did he never know what to say?

There wasn’t much he _ could _ say, in point of fact, if Elias was still watching. He wouldn’t risk tipping their hand too early, putting Martin’s plan in jeopardy. He liked the idea of it little enough without adding to the risks.

So before he could think better of it, he stepped forward to wrap his arms around Martin’s shoulders, and whispered something that was more a wish than an instruction.

“_Stay safe _.”

He pulled back quickly, somehow afraid of what would happen otherwise, but Martin’s hand shot out, gripping his elbow before he could take more than a step back.

“Jon—” Martin began, speaking barely above a whisper. It was odd—with all that they had seen and lived through and feared together, Jon had thought he’d heard the full range of Martin Blackwood’s emotions. But he couldn’t place his tone. “Don’t— Don’t _ die_, Jon.”

Oh.

Jon’s mouth felt dry. Martin hadn’t looked away; he was studying his face with an intensity he wouldn’t have thought possible, though what he was searching for, Jon couldn’t say. But he knew that the old lies—any air of false confidence or caustic remark or bit of gallows humor—would be seen through in an instant. He could only be honest.

“I’ll do my best.”

It was painfully inadequate, as always. And as always, it was all that he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ouch i hurt my own feelings :(
> 
> the last installment will be coming in a week! (and i promise i will give them the chance to make things better)


	12. 15 October 2017

Martin slipped into the room silently, as if the barest hint of noise might disturb its occupant, twisting the door handle so that it gave only the faintest click in closing. Stupid. Irrational, Jon would say. If there were any chance whatsoever of that, he should be _ slamming _ the door. Breaking things. Screaming as loudly as he wanted to. 

Oh, how he wanted to.

Instead, he took a shaky breath and quietly moved the plastic-upholstered chair from its place by the wall to nearer the bed. It felt like it would be…irreverent, somehow, to shatter the quiet peace of the room. He tried not to think about why that was.

Biting his lip, he lowered himself to sit uncomfortably on the edge of the chair. It wasn’t so bad, as far as hospital chairs went. Plenty of places didn’t bother with cushioned chairs, probably with the assumption that anyone visiting a hospital would never be in a comfortable position anyway. They weren’t wrong.

“Hey, Jon,” he finally said, twisting his hands in his lap. In other circumstances, the words would have been barely audible. Here, they pierced the silence with a violence that made him wince.

Of course, no answering _ Martin _ came to chastise him for the interruption. He hadn’t expected that it would—not _ really _—so it shouldn’t have disappointed him that it didn’t. Then again, nothing was how it should be, anymore.

“I—” he hesitated, trying to think what it was that Jon would want to hear. Not that he knew whether Jon _ could _ hear. He couldn’t even be sure that he wanted him to.

He _ had _to believe that Jon was more alive than he looked. That any moment now, he might come back to them.

But what would it mean, then, that he hadn’t?

“We’re safe,” he finally settled on, though he had given the same meaningless reassurance half a dozen times before, in place of the things that he didn’t have the courage to say. “So it’s alright, if…if you can’t wake up right now.”

That was a lie. It wasn’t alright. He couldn’t go on like this.

But to ask and be answered, once and for all, by silence…that was far worse than worms or corridors or circuses. Worse than the monsters stalking the Institute or Peter Lukas. Worse even than the ever-growing distance between the few survivors in the archives.

He wouldn’t blame Jon for it. Of course he wouldn’t. Why should Jon wake up when _he_ asked him to? He hadn’t even _been _there. Tim had died, and Daisy had too, and Jon…

Jon had said that none of them might be coming back. And he…should have heard that, and believed it, and gone with them. Should have found a way to help, to keep them _ safe _ , or— He should have at least faced the consequences with them. Yet he had stayed behind, _ knowing _ that dealing with Elias might be for nothing. All because of that stubborn piece of his heart that refused to give up the hope that they would need a place to come home to.

He hated that part of himself a little bit more every day. 

“But...the world didn’t end, right?” No matter how much he felt like it had. “So I’d like it if you would…” he bit his lip, forcing back the hurt threatened to spill into his words. He was getting good at that. “If we could talk. Sometime.”

It didn’t have to be now. Jon could take all the time he needed to find a reason to wake up, so long as he would hear his voice again someday. His real voice, unfiltered through the hiss of tape and other people’s memories. It would be paired with a grimace or a raised brow or, if he was very lucky, a wry smile, and no matter how tired, or sardonic, or irritated he sounded about it, Jon would tell him where they were supposed to go from here. So Martin would wait.

He would wait, even though it wasn’t fair to hang his hopes on one person. Especially not when he had never been any of the things to Jon that he was expecting Jon to be to him. Basira was right: he hadn’t done a single thing of any real use. If he had, then maybe Jon would have come to him when he needed a source inside the Institute. Maybe he would have trusted him enough to not keep him at arm’s length. 

Maybe he wouldn’t have been so willing to leave him behind.

It would have been fairer to walk away, then, than to ask what he had no right to. So much easier not to listen for an answer that he had no courage to face. Instead, he stubbornly reached for Jon’s hand, ice cold and impossible atop the mundane hospital bedsheet.

“Just...try. Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait! shockingly, it's uh...not easy to write scenes between two characters who haven't been allowed to talk to each other for an entire season :p


	13. 23 March 2018

_Martin,_

The sheet in front of him read. That, and nothing else. He stared at the blank space, and it stared back with the silent contempt that all such unfilled pages hold.

He had meant it to be a letter. Obviously. Not that its contents were to be so profoundly secret that they had to be concealed from the tapes, strictly speaking. But this message wasn’t for posterity, and he didn’t particularly want to give Martin the idea that it was. He had been rather clear as to his stance on information about what was taking place in the archives, after all.

And yes, he had initially had some hope that the words might flow better this way. God knew that they never came out right when he was speaking them—their last conversation had been proof of that. ‘Just lonely,’ indeed.

Regardless, it wasn’t working.

He sighed deeply, tilting his head back to frown at the ceiling. It was a depressing, dingy thing. Hopefully being Peter’s assistant meant that Martin at least got to work in one of the Institute’s nicer offices now.

He could Know, if he wanted to. But Martin had asked him not to find him, and that would almost certainly count. Also, he had become aware that he was already glowering at the cheap ceiling light as if it had personally wronged him, so perhaps it was better not to continue that train of thought. Sighing again, he went back to glowering at the paper instead.

This wasn’t what he had expected.

Well, no. In point of fact, he hadn’t _ expected _ at all, given that one moment he was in a coma, and the next, he was learning that everyone else would rather he’d stayed that way. But if he had been allowed the time to consider it, to form an image in his mind of how this ought to have gone?

He would have expected Martin, at least, to be there. Martin had _ always _ been there, with his fussing and his tea and his kind but firm insistence that everything would be alright.

If Martin _ were _ here, perhaps he could believe that it would be. That they could make the sacrifices of those they had lost count for something. That they wouldn’t be at the mercy of sinister forces and the worst parts of humanity forever. That even he could be fixed, with the right amount of stubborn faith.

As it was, he was having difficulty believing in much of anything. And he felt more than ever, now that it was all on his shoulders, how much weight Martin had been bearing for him.

He understood perfectly well that it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to ask anyone else to shoulder his burdens, when so many were of his own making. It wasn’t fair of him to feel Martin’s absence so keenly, when he’d already given so much more of himself than Jon deserved. He’d never even thanked him for it, for god’s sake.

He couldn’t do so now, either, without it sounding like a ploy for sympathy, a chastisement for having left. And he couldn’t, he _ wouldn’t _ make Martin feel guilty for fighting the battles he would never have had to fight if Jon hadn’t been so damn _ scared_.

Perhaps he hadn’t been fully conscious of what was happening, or what it all meant. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that if he had, deep down, been able to put Daisy, and Basira, and Melanie, and god, _ Martin _ before himself, he would have awoken sooner. Soon enough to have spared them some of the horror, or at least stood by them through it. Small wonder that they were all angry with him.

He could never make up for it. Like as not, even his meager attempts to put things a little closer to right would fail—if one thing had been made abundantly clear, it was that he couldn’t do this on his own. Yet there was only one place to go from here.

Finally putting his pen to paper, he scribbled a single line, and signed it.

How many times had he apologized to Martin, he wondered. Too many, to be sure, each of less use than the last. How could words ever compensate for what he had done? For failing to be there, not once but time and time again? For coming back too late, and too _ wrong _ to be welcome? For, in spite of everything, still having the gall to wish that Martin would come back to _ him_?

But if he couldn’t go back to a time when there was still time, if he couldn’t thank Martin as he deserved, again and again, until he knew just how much it had all meant, he could at least do this. A simple platitude wouldn’t hurt, no matter how selfish the impulse, or insufficient the effort.

He folded the paper into thirds, then set out for the upstairs offices. That Martin was often in Elias’s office was established fact, so surely it didn’t really count as “finding” him, if he slipped the note under the door for him to find in the morning. The Institute was long since closed, its hallways dark and silent, and there was no one to stop him.

Martin probably wouldn’t even read it. And if he did, he’d have no means of knowing what it referred to. It wouldn’t change anything.

Even so, he hoped that he would forgive him, one last time.


	14. 1 October 2018

Sure, Martin was aware that the archives were the most dangerous place he could possibly be. There was a certain sort of being seen, of being _ known _ that was about as antithetical to the Lonely as you could get. He wasn’t sure how much that factored into the Institute’s cordial relationship with the Lukases, but he was reasonably certain that, as things stood, Jon could overpower him in a matter of seconds if he wanted to. 

He was counting on him not to want to. Which, he supposed, made him something of a gambler himself. Peter would be proud, if probably less than pleased that his all-important plan was taking the place of a betting chip in this particular instance.

He would be getting what he wanted soon enough, anyway.

At the threshold of the Archivist’s office, Martin paused. Or, rather, was given pause, by the fact that Jon gave no sign of noticing his approach. Either the Lonely was a more effective defense than he had given it credit for, or Jon merely hadn’t bothered to look. To see him now, slumped in his chair and staring at the statement before him without interest, made the latter feel more likely than he cared to think. There was a dullness to his gaze that was entirely un-Jon-like, as though he’d been hollowed out from the inside.

_ Hungry. _ That was how both Basira and Jon had described it. But that wasn’t all, was it?

Martin didn’t have time for guilt, these days. Against the Powers it was about as much use as a teaspoon. But the Lonely had done little to dampen it—no more than it stifled the traitorous flicker of warmth he felt when Jon had first begun to babble at him about escaping the Institute together—so he was stuck with it twisting in his gut and up his throat.

Maybe Jon hadn’t meant a word of what he said, and was only looking for an excuse to discard the information on that tape. Or maybe a part of him—the part that had thrown him headfirst into the Buried, had decided that an army of two was sufficient for Ny-Alesund—really did want to escape, no matter the cost. Either way, he wouldn’t have come to him if there were anyone else he could trust to tell him _no_, and though that realization had lodged in him like a knife, it was hardly Jon’s fault.

He wished he could blame the Lonely for his cruelty. Jon had done so readily enough. But he knew better.

A shallow layer of fog curled at his heels as he stepped into the room, subsequently spreading itself out to the corners. It was, he figured, at least a more courteous greeting than suddenly speaking out of thin air. Jon didn’t change position, but the slight pursing of his lips showed that he had noticed the drop in temperature.

Control. That was what Daisy had said it was about, for Jon. And maybe...maybe it was a little bit about that for him too. He couldn’t be the one Jon came to any longer, but even so—he needed him to keep fighting. To let his world end twice, even if he wouldn’t be there to see it, was more than anyone had the right to ask of him.

“What, not even a little bit afraid that I’m here to whoosh you into the Lonely?” he prodded, pleased to note that his voice echoed in the room even as he remained unseen. It was, in a word, ‘_spooky_.’ He almost smiled at the thought. Being touched by two Powers did have its moments.

Though he didn’t raise his gaze, Jon did raise an eyebrow, as if the same thing had occurred to him.

“Tape’s not on,” he answered evenly, sitting up a bit straighter to tap the recorder on the desk in front of him, “And I’m sure it wouldn’t miss that.”

Martin would have rolled his eyes, if being invisible wouldn’t so completely spoil the effect. As it was, he had to settle for sounding as unimpressed as possible.

“You’re…outsourcing your safety to the tape recorders.” Apparently he had his work cut out for him. Not that that was a surprise. The whole ‘keeping Jon alive’ thing had always been harder than it ought.

“No, I rather doubt that these things have my best interests at heart. It would make for a refreshing change of pace, for one thing, and we can’t have that,” Jon replied, a hint of his traditional sarcasm seeping back into his voice, “But I haven’t been ‘whooshed’ before, as you say, and I’m sure they would find that _ fascinating_.”

After so many conversations held in haste, with Jon so close that he could have closed the distance with a step or two, it was odd to be here, like this. Martin was forcibly reminded of how it had been at the beginning: him stood awkwardly by the desk, Jon refusing to tear his eyes from his work. Then, he had looked at his prickly, workaholic, endearing boss, and wondered if it was too much to ask for him to so much as glance at him. Now…he could see the scars running up the side of Jon’s face, and the way he still pushed his hair back with one hand when he spoke, and his smirk, in all its vivid reality rather than through the haze of memory, and— Now, this way was safer. Maybe it was even a kind of attempt at courtesy, a sign that Jon understood the risk he was taking by being here. It was for the best.

But it didn’t stop him resenting, with every part of him, each moment he had spent anywhere that wasn’t here. Nor how it was so much harder to save one person than to save the world.

Turning his back to Jon, he leaned against the opposite side of the desk. He could do it. He would do it. He had to. He took in a breath, and—

“Don’t give up, Martin,” Jon said, before he could speak.

_ What? _he thought.

“What?” he asked.

“You think you’re out of time.” Surprisingly accurate. Suspiciously accurate, considering how he hadn’t left any tapes detailing the timeline for his plan.

“Did you _Know_ that?” he asked, not bothering to keep the accusation out of his voice.

“There’s only one reason you would be here,” Jon answered softly, with either a real or imagined note of melancholy, Martin couldn’t be sure. Then he heard a sigh, and, “How much longer can you give us?”

“Us.” 

“Me, Daisy, Basira. We have a plan, we think, or—well, most of one. Once you have control of what Lukas is after, we—”

“Jon,” he cut in with exasperation, “This isn’t about me.”

It wasn’t. He wasn’t here because he thought Jon would—save him, or something. A surge of anger and frustration that welled up in him at the thought. He didn’t _ need _ saving.

The most ridiculous thing was that, of all people, he had thought that Jon might believe that he knew what he was doing. That the silence between them for so many months had indicated as much. But no, despite the fact that _ he _ was the one dashing off into danger every five seconds, despite the fact that _ he _ was the one that forever warranted being worried sick over, Jon still thought that _ Martin _ needed rescuing.

It was hard to tell whether to laugh or cry, really. Harder to bite his tongue, though it seemed to him that he should try. It would be nice if, one day, Jon could remember him for something other than his worst qualities.

“It never is, is it?” came a voice to his left. He realized with a start that Jon had rounded the desk to stand beside him, hunched shoulders and crossed arms forming a familiar display of petulance, “I suppose that’s why you weren’t planning to come back.”

“Basira told you,” he sighed, already exhausted. There never had been any chance of this conversation going the way he’d wanted, had there?

“She didn’t need to,” Jon said crossly, “As you so memorably remarked, I am, in fact, _ not a moron_.”

“So...what?” He could feel himself losing the battle with his irritation, “You all decided that you had to stop me for my own good?” Poor, foolish Martin, never knowing what he was getting himself into, right? “Jon, I _ chose _ this.”

“You did,” Jon replied quietly, which wasn’t the argument Martin had been expecting. And then, almost as if he were speaking to himself, “But you never wanted it.”

Didn’t he? 

He frowned. If there had to be a sacrifice, then he _ did _want to be the one to make it. He hadn’t expected the others to understand why he felt that way, but—surely Jon should? After Sasha. After Tim. After—

“You can’t know that, Jon.”

“No. No, I can’t.” He sounded almost as tired as Martin felt. “But I know that you’ve waited until you had answers. Not just about the Extinction, but _ everything_. I know you gave us the tapes, instead of leaving them for us to find after you were—gone. I know you’re here now, when it seems like you’re out of options. And,” he continued more insistently, “I know _ you_, Martin. I know you."

How well Jon could see, he wondered. By all appearances he still wasn’t looking, but he had leaned back on the desk, and— Did he know how close they were? Did he know that the sides of their palms, their arms, their shoulders would be touching, if only they were occupying the same plane?

What _did_ he want?

He wanted to believe that he had made the right choice, for one. And...it _had_ been right, when he made it. When he had nothing else left.

But if there had been another path, a way forward that wasn’t losing himself or losing everyone else, wouldn’t he have chosen it? If there had been any hope of there being another way, wouldn’t he have hoped for it? Didn’t he still hope for it, just a little, now that he had a reason to, right here, so close beside him? 

What was it he had said to Jon? _ What you _ want _ is a reason to _ not_. _

Oh, he really couldn’t decide between laughing or crying, now.

“A bit daft to hope for a better deal than just one person for the whole world, probably,” he choked out.

“Probably,” Jon shrugged, “But it’s not just one person. It’s you.”

Simon had been wrong, Martin thought. Because when Jon said it, it sounded like the most natural thing in the world, and his hold on the Lonely fractured like glass. 

“...Okay. Okay,” he said, taking in a breath just as he heard Jon let one out.

He paused, holding the air in for a moment, and composed himself. There was still work to do. Time to buy, lines to walk. But he had done it for this long, and he could manage a while longer.

“On one condition,” he added. Jon raised an eyebrow at the floor. “If I come out of this—the Extinction, the Lonely, whatever tries to kill us after that—so does everyone else.”

“Obv—” Jon began to scoff.

“You included.” Jon was the one who had asked what he wanted, after all. And this part of it, he had never forgotten. Couldn’t have, even if he tried. The feeling of _ wanting Jon to be safe _ had long since settled into the lines on his skin, burned itself into his soul. “I’m not doing this without you, Jon. Not anymore.”

“Ah. Yes, I—” At least Jon had the good grace to look sheepish about it, “Of course.”

As bargains went, he thought, standing up to leave, it was a good one. He would know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...listen, I know the power probably doesn't work like this, but how fun would it be if it did?


	15. 18 October 2018

Jon threw a surreptitious glance to his right, just to check. He had to suppress a sigh of relief at finding Martin still there, which was entirely ridiculous. If he were going to leave again, he wouldn’t simply vanish into thin air. Probably. Jon looked back at him anyway.

Martin was, at this moment, skimming a statement while absently grasping for the mug of tea Jon had brought with his other hand. They really should be getting to sleep soon—Daisy and Basira had already turned in almost an hour ago, when Melanie had called to say that “creepy bullshit hours” were over for the day, as was her habit of late—but even if sleep itself were a restful endeavor for him, Jon couldn’t see himself relaxing anywhere near enough to get there at the moment. Perhaps Martin was the same. Two problems down, after all, didn’t mean that there weren’t plenty of others to go.

They were perched on the sofa he and Daisy had long ago appropriated from the library—as she had surmised, none were brave enough to stop them doing as they pleased—legs folded up onto the seat and copies of statements hemming them in on all sides. The desk had been obviously too small to be up to the task of laying out all statements relating to the Eye, or the Web, or both, and frankly, the floor wasn’t either. But they were making do.

As he watched, Martin put the statement on his lap and chewed at the inside of one cheek. His brow furrowed in that same way it did when he was trying to look cross as he stared pensively into his tea.

It was maddening. How was a person supposed to get anything done?

Jon bit his lip and tried to focus. Martin would either disappear again, or he wouldn’t. No point in staring if he still wasn’t going to say anything.

It was more than a bit pathetic—for the longest time he’d had no idea what he wanted to convey to Martin, despite ample opportunity, and once he’d found the words he’d long lost the chance to speak them. Now, he knew exactly what to say, and Martin was right there, and yet his voice seemed to be lodged somewhere in his throat, along with his breath.

Focus. Right.

They had too much information, was the issue. A glut of it, but precious little clarity. Was the Web attempting to encourage the Eye’s own ritual attempt? Thwart it? Tip some vital domino at the last moment, allowing itself to ascend instead? Or was it simply enjoying driving them all mad for the time being, as Annabelle had suggested? There was evidence for any number of theories, even before one arrived at the question of what the Watcher’s Crown would entail. He was aware by now that the Entities, or Powers, or whatever they were, rarely provided their servants with useful knowledge, but it was still frustrating to have so little understanding of his own patron. He was supposed to be an avatar of knowledge itself, for god’s sake.

Though...truth be told, he hadn’t actually tried to See. Not the Web, or the Eye, or what connected the two. It was entirely possible that he would be able to, if he made the attempt—but he wasn’t meant to be doing that anymore. The fact that it was likely what Elias wanted, or even expected, was a point in favor of restraining himself, but more significantly: it made him hungry, and hunger made him somehow both weaker _and_ more dangerous. That connection was more than obvious, and Basira had been on the point of refusing to let Jon use his power to break the Lonely’s hold on Martin until he had told her exactly how an avatar of the Eye could be killed, should it come to that. That it hadn’t was down to Martin, still shaking and barely able to sit up, offering to let Jon take his statement.

It had been horrible for everyone involved, and they’d had a blazing row over who was the bigger idiot, after—one so bad that he had been afraid Martin would leave again out of spite. Worse, it was barely enough. And it wouldn’t work again. So here they were, stuck trying to piece together the puzzle the old-fashioned way. Not exactly his forte.

He sighed. If he was going to be confused either way, might as well begin with the most confusing bit. Scanning the floor, he saw the statement about the Chelicerae almost directly in front of him, bridging the gap between what they had begun referring to as “spider cinema” statements on one side, and a transcription of Gertrude’s tape about the Alexandria archive on the other. The site was a collection of supernatural stories, to be sure, but what if it aligned with the Eye’s archives in another way? If it required stories tied to different powers, from every power—and didn’t it seem like that was what Lagorio had been creating as well?

He dove for the Lagorio statement, and there was a resounding crack, followed by a flash of blinding pain. He vaguely perceived a moan of pain from his left.

“Christ, Jon! Just how thick is your skull?” came from the same direction. Martin must’ve gone for the same statement at the same time, he thought dimly. He would have to ask him about if he’d been following the same train of thought as well—if he could ever remember what that had been.

“Oh, you’re one to talk,” he ground out through gritted teeth, clutching his temple.

After a moment, the pain receded to a dull throb—presumably due to his Beholding-granted healing ability, because _ Jesus Christ_. As his vision began to recover, he looked over to Martin again, who was rubbing at his—rather red—nose, and wearing a look of great affront. As Jon watched, he sniffed minutely.

_ God, I missed you. _

Jon thought, just momentarily, that he would give anything for his terrible power to be the clairvoyance that everyone took it for. The sort of thing that could show him, beyond a shadow of a doubt, how Martin would react to what he had to say.

But this would never have been easy, and asking that it be—that was missing the point entirely, wasn’t it? Nothing that made a difference, big or small, against forces more powerful than they could possibly comprehend—none of those things that he had only ever understood because of the man next to him—were easy to come by. Anchors. Hope. Courage in the face of what you feared most. And...

“I love you,” he said, at long last.

Martin’s face turned red as a dying sun. Evidently on the point of saying something, he opened his mouth several times, but made no sound until he finally closed it and emitted a strangled noise somewhere between a whine and a squeak.

“Er, that’s not—" Jon said, mainly to fill the silence before Martin overexerted himself and passed out, “I’m not trying to make things awkward, or—" Well done on that one, then. “I don’t expect an...an answer, or anything. I only— I thought you deserved to...know?” he finished weakly. Martin was staring at him, studying him as if he were the missing link that could solve some long-pondered mystery, and he wondered if _he_ mightn’t pass out. Come to think of it, that might be the face-saving move, in this situation. Though perhaps if he returned to work and pretended that none of this had ever happened, Martin would take pity on him and do the same.

He turned to look back at the floor—so many statements to be getting through, all quite fascinating, surely anyone would agree—only... Only he didn’t quite manage it, because Martin had grabbed his shoulders. And was kissing him. Ah.

His breath hitched the second he had registered it, and in that same instant it was over, Martin pulling back as if he had been burned.

“S-Sorry,” he squeaked, “That was... I should’ve asked—” He was starting to loosen his grip, and lean a little further away, and Jon didn’t want that, so he put his hands on either side of Martin’s face to hold him in place.

“Martin,” he interrupted, more forcefully than he really intended. There wasn’t much for Martin to do but meet his eyes, at that point, but he gave avoiding his gaze a solid effort anyway. “Martin, it’s fine. You surprised me; that’s all.”

“Oh,” Martin exhaled, the tension dropping out of him at once, “Yeah, I, uh...I guess I know the feeling.” He spoke softly, but Jon winced. It was a hell of a thing to dump on someone out of nowhere.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“No, I’m...glad. That you told me.” Martin leaned closer, squeezing his eyes shut as they rested their foreheads together, and gave Jon’s shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Really.”

All was quiet and still for a moment, both of them hardly daring to breathe. As long as they didn’t move, Jon thought, he could pretend they might stay like this forever. Imagine that all of it—the fear and the knowing, the regret for everything he’d done and the dread for all that was to come—would fall away, leaving only a self that could be better, _ would _ be better, because this warmth against his skin and inside his chest was far too dear to lose.

But he was done pretending, so he’d just have to find a way to work with what he had. And anyway, they’d managed equally impossible things. The proof was right next to him.

He shifted, and their noses brushed.

“I’m glad that you’re back.”

“Me too,” Martin replied, pulling back just enough to show off his shy smile and causing Jon to lose his train of thought entirely. Infuriating. Entirely uncalled for. “Um,” he continued, hesitant but determined, as was his way, “D’you think I could maybe...kiss you again? You know, do a...better job of it?” Jon snorted.

“Depends,” he smirked, unable to refrain from exacting some sort of revenge, “If I say ‘no,’ are you going to have another go at concussing me instead?”

Martin laughed, a little huff that sent warm air skating across Jon’s lips.

He could never be sure, afterward, which of them moved first. But he supposed it didn’t matter, given that they got there in the end.

The kiss was gentle and unhurried, though as they fell into each other and Jon slid his arms around Martin’s shoulders, he almost wondered if he would have survived it without his supernatural constitution. Surely hearts weren’t meant to beat that hard? But Martin’s hands on his sides were trembling too, and that told him he was not alone.

Worse things were coming. They always were. But they would hold tight to these fragile moments, and each other, and they would rise to meet them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading this, and everyone who commented especially! I know I've been suuuper slow in replying to them, but I really appreciated every single one and they're about 90% of the reason I managed to survive the 18 million rewrites I had to do of this last section.
> 
> A couple people have mentioned to me that they would be interested in more stories with this format, and though I wanted to give this fic an "ending" so I can move on to other projects as my main focus, I am certainly up for writing more one-shots set in-between episodes, so feel free to send me prompts on tumblr @stopitjon (or hit me up on discord) if you like! ^^

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Committed to Memory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20192104) by [EternalLibrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternalLibrary/pseuds/EternalLibrary)


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